


Relief of Frustrations

by Daydreamer



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fanboy Phil Coulson, Fantasizing, Little bit of angst, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daydreamer/pseuds/Daydreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After playing dead for the sake of the Avengers, Phil Coulson has been exiled to obscurity where the only relief for his frustrations is in the form of fantasies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relief of Frustrations

Damn his chest ached.

Phil Coulson lifted a hand and placed it directly over the scar he had received from Loki's scepter. Even over a year later, the injury flared up from time to time. It made field work difficult and as a result, he was regulated to desk duty in some small city in the Midwest. Yet another cause for the frustrations that built inside him.

Of course, he never let his frustrations show. From his early days in the CIA, he had taught himself to keep frustrations and annoyances to himself. If an opponent knew of them, they could be used against him. There were a certain few who could break the genial persona he kept in place. It was rare, but Tony Stark had quite the talent for burrowing under a person's skin like a tick and aggravating the area until the only recourse was to scratch. That man had caused him more headaches than he cared to think about. Deep down he was a good man, but he hid it deep beneath the guise of a playboy and snarky asshole. He'd heard Tony had finally married Pepper Potts in a very private ceremony attended only by a justice of the peace on a small Caribbean island. If anyone could deal with Stark, it was Ms. Potts.

With a smile, slid his suit jacket from his shoulders and tossed it over a chair in his intimate dining room, loosening his tie as he went. Thinking of Tony brought on a sense of longing for the others extraordinary men and women he had worked with to varying degrees over the years. Those amazing people had made his talents seem pitiable, and yet, he never felt less than an equal when he was with them. They had welcomed him, seen him as a familiar face, and it had created something warm inside him. He was simply their liaison, but he felt like a member of the team.

It was, however, one man in particular that infiltrated the majority of his unrestrained thoughts. Not that the feeling was unusual. That particular man had been a part of his fantasies since he was a child. As he aged, the fantasies became decided less innocent, but the same man continued to hold the leading role in all of them.

Steve Rogers or more commonly known for his code name, Captain America, was a man above any other and he could not seem to divest himself of the longing that man brought to life inside him.

No lover, male or female, had ever been able to fully reach the pedestal he placed for that one man. He had thought him nothing more than a long dead hero who somehow seemed so very real to him. The world had thought him dead until the day a particular bit of paperwork crossed Phil's desk, to which he quickly brought to Fury's attention. Almost immediately, the document was classified at the highest level and he was on a plane within the hour.

Seeing Steve Rogers for the first time was a dream come true. That he was alive and perfectly preserved seemed almost fantastical, something meant more for books and the movies than for real life. There was no known elixir in existence that could do such for a human body. That particular secret was lost upon Dr. Abraham Erskine's death and fated to never be recreated. It felt like a gift had been granted to him, for he was privy to watch the man who had haunted his fantasies be brought slowly back to life.

The gradual increase of his heartbeat, the increase in his respirations, the way his dark fan of lashes fluttered on his cheekbones—all of that had made his heart thump painfully in his chest and for a warm heat to begin expanding throughout his body. If he could just be near that man, he could be satisfied. Such was more than he could have ever hoped to have.

Phil slumped on the leather of his sofa and leaned his head back against the soft cushioning. He had gotten his wish. Within a matter of months, he was meeting Steve Rogers for the first time since he awoke. For all too brief of a time, he could walk down the hall or sit in the mess and be allowed to look until his eyes fell out because half of the crew members did the same. The man practically exuded a sense of perfection. It was not only his body, though it was nothing to be ashamed of, but something about Steve's general aura that drew people to him.

And, he was no different. It was almost pitifully easy how quickly he was ensnared. Or, perhaps he had always been ensnared. Captain America had been lost from the eyes of the world years before his birth, and yet he was still drawn to his charismatic presence. 

Ever so slowly, his hands began to undo the white buttons of his shirt, tugging the material from his trousers so that it fell open and to the sides of his body. With a slow and measured touch, he slid his hand beneath his undershirt and over the tight skin beneath. He was not overly muscled or powerfully built like some people, nor did he visit the gym for hours on end to create such a body. The inclination to create a marble-like body was just never in him. As long as his body was fit and capable of performing the tasks he needed it to, there was no desire to go beyond that.

His hands began to explore his torso, the small bit of spry bit of hair located centrally on his chest, and the pale pink nipples that perked to life at his touch. This was the worst part of being alone. The longing for the touch of another burned a hole inside him. His body longed for relief from the agony of built up frustrations.

His frustrations with his newly appointed desk job. His frustrations with the injury in his chest that never seemed to completely lose its ache despite having access to the best physicians. His frustrations with only being allowed to see Steve Rogers via the random television spots or through the very occasional bit of paperwork that might cross his path. It all built inside him until he felt as if he would explode at a moment's notice.

One might think that he would garner the occasional visit from those men who were called super heros—men he worked with for so many years. He had done a lot for them, some more extensively than others. He knew better than to hope for a visit from anyone. To everyone's knowledge, Phil Coulson had died from Loki's attack that day. His death served to unite a group fighting amongst itself and Nick Fury did not want to lose that bit of control he had achieved by revealing the lie. 

Phil understood completely. His death was the catalyst for the Avengers Initiative uniting under a common cause. It drove the others, even after the initial bite of his death had faded. The driving force in them was their desire to prevent others from suffering the loss of a loved one. In Fury's eyes, there was always the chance that the revelation of his survival would pull apart the Avengers just as easily as his death had brought them more fully together. They needed his death.

And it frustrated the hell out of him because he had not only lost people he respected, he had lost one of the men with whom he could safely say he felt more than a simple infatuation. Did he love Steve? He really could not be certain of his feelings when he'd never had the opportunity to pursue more than casual flirting and friendly exchanges with the actual man.

That left him only his fantasies to satiate the burning desire to be near Steve. Steve Rogers, no Captain America, was the leader of the Avengers. He, more than any other, needed to be left in the dark about what had happened to him.

Phil accepted his part in the way of things and began to relax against the buttery feel of the soft leather sofa. He closed his eyes and swallowed as reality began to fade away. If fantasies were all he would be allowed, he would accept it for the good of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the world as a whole. It was bitter medicine and he took it with as much grace as he could muster.

His mind drifted farther into fantasy as the hands stroking his chest seemed to grow callused and thick. They glided over his perked nipples, teasing the puckered flesh with skilled strokes. He could not hold back the groan as the sensitive flesh was pinched almost to the point of pain, his limit known with instinct.

_Phil_

The sound of his name whispered in his head sent shivers through his spine. He knew ever timbre of that voice and how his name would sound as it rolled over Steve's tongue. The slight huskiness of the tone sent a spiral of heat and desperation into his groin. All control left him and his hips bucked up in a pleading motion.

"Oh god...more."

Any other time, he might have found such neediness in his voice to be disturbing. At this moment, all he could think of was how good it felt to be touched and how much he needed it, particularly from this man—the man who haunted some aspect of his thoughts during every waking moment. For this man, he felt no shame or self-consciousness at sounding as such. He wanted him to know how much it hurt when he was not with him and how desperately his body called out for him to take whatever he wished.

_Tell me what you want, Phil._

"Steve," he gasped out. "I want you."

Warm hands trailed down his chest and over the jumping flesh of his stomach, leaving trails of chill bumps in their wake. He was out of breath and left gasping for more when he felt the lightest of touches brush over the bulge in his trousers. The touch was almost innocent much like Steve himself.

_Tell me how._

"Harder," he pleaded almost desperately.

His instruction was rewarded almost immediately. A palm cupped him and he nearly sobbed in relief. He was painfully hard and the touch was both torture and respite. His hips arched high and his head pressed deeply into the cushion behind it.

The shivering in him intensified upon feeling the phantom brush of lips along the faintly stubbly skin beneath his jaw. A tongue darted out, stroking the flesh and a gasp erupted from him as molten heat poured through his veins.

The hand on his crotch disappeared, but only for a moment before opening the button and fly of his trousers and peeling them apart. His boxers and trousers were tugged down his legs and kicked off along with his shoes and socks. Now that he was naked from the waist down, he slid to his back on the sofa and groaned at the slick sensation of leather at his backside.

"I'm dying here, Steve."

_I know. I'm sorry for the wait._

"Please," he whispered.

Hands that felt not his own grasped his cock and gave one hard pull. A moan rippled from him and his head fell back. More. He wanted so much more.

The fantasy was getting out of hand and he began to lose himself even more in its grasp. Reality faded away completely and he could no longer distinguish between his own hands touching his body and that of his imaginary Steve. Phantom lips grazed down his throat, over the hard knob of his adam's apple and down to the sensitive area of his collar bone. He nearly jolted out of his skin when the lips parted above the ragged scar on his chest where his life had nearly ended at the end of Loki's scepter. Warm wetness began stroking the scar and he very nearly came from the sensations purging every thought from his mind but the moment at hand. 

"God, Steve."

There was no answer as the lips trailed over to a nipple and began to suck and nibble at the flesh. He was speechless with the pleasure, his lips parting but no sound escaping. He was deaf and blind. Only his tactile sense seemed to work as it should, overloading him with sensations that his brain could barely compute.

_Tell me what you want._

"Your mouth...please, use your mouth on me."

_As you wish._

The lips never stayed in one place too long, kissing, sucking, and biting their way down his body until reaching the stretch of skin just below his navel. A nose traced slowly through the coarse hair that began at his navel and followed it down. He could almost feel the breath coming from lips and nearly screeched when those lips enveloped the tip of his erection.

Waves of pleasure crashed down on him. His fingers longed to run through the silky blond hair and see those soft blue eyes staring up at him as he sucked him down with practiced movements. But, he kept his eyes clenched shut and moaned even louder. Opening his eyes would end everything and he would not do that even if it cost him his life. He needed this fantasy to last.

He was panting now, the sound desperate in the chilled air of his apartment. His teeth gnawed at his lower lip and he arched his hips in desperate jerks. A yell broke free as the tight clench of his anus was stroked and he tasted blood in his effort to keep from reaching his climax. If he climaxed, everything would end.

And so, he fought a losing battle.

A single unlubricated finger pressed inside him. The scratchy feel of the touch eased him from the edge of orgasm, but only minutely. Just as quickly as the urge to come eased, the finger began moving and the rubbing sensation on the nerves surrounding his anus fired him into an even higher stratosphere of pleasure. His anus clenched and the touch on his dick was beginning to overwhelm him.

Tears leaked from his closed lids under the assault of clenching them so tight. His body was losing its grip on his restraint. He had already reached the point of no return. The end was upon him and he arched fully, only his shoulders, head, and feet touching the sofa as his body began to spurt its release over his body.

His body held its position for several seconds as he rode out the waves of his orgasm before collapsing in a boneless heap. The only sound that filled the space was that of his panted breath attempting to regain a normal rhythm. 

Reality set in far too quickly and his previously clenched eyes opened to find himself alone, one hand on his dick and the other pressed into his ass. For a brief time, it had felt so very real. It had been Steve's touch on him—stroking and sucking him into a sense of pleasure.

His throat bobbed with the contractions of his swallows and he heaved a regretful sigh. It really was shameful to fixate upon the man. Steve had never given the slightest inclination to his proclivities, not to mention he was from an era where homosexuality was considered an extreme deviation from the norm. It was unlikely that even should he be allowed to meet him again that he would ever be anything but an ally and friend.

If he was ever allowed...

He shook his head and reached for his boxers, using them to clean himself enough that he did not leave a trail of dripping cum as he walked toward the bathroom. He dropped his boxers in the hamper and used a clean washrag to wipe himself clear of all signs of his actions. After sending the rag into the hamper along with his soiled boxers, he moved to stand before the mirror in only his opened shirt and the revealed undershirt. He shook his head and turned the taps, splashing water on his face before grabbing a towel and returning his gaze to the mirror.

What was a middle aged man doing fantasizing about a superhero like some vapid teenaged girl? He was ashamed and at the same time, could feel the residual tingles of a good orgasm washing away the guilt. Rubbing his hands over his face, he sighed, shed his clothing, and walked into the bedroom, stopping only long enough to pull on a pair of clean boxers and falling onto the perfectly made bed.

A thick lump of longing rose in his gut. He flopped over onto his back and flung an arm over his face. The frustration was back. He was lost as a pencil pusher, hidden in obscurity for the greater good. Those words seemed bitter now that he lived them instead of watched them used in an attempt to placate others.

The phone beside his bed rang; and for an instant, he thought of ignoring it in favor of his silent brooding. His ingrained training would not allow that thought to remain dominant and he tamped down the temptation before picking up on the third ring.

"Coulson."

"Agent Coulson, this is Nick Fury."

Phil sat up instantly, his feet thumping as they hit the floor. "Sir?"

He had not spoken to Fury in almost six months, something of which he was both bitter and glad. To have him call him was a surprise since he had integrated into the archive department in this city so flawlessly. Still, he was glad to hear his commander's voice after so long. He considered him a friend as much as a superior officer.

"How are you feeling, Coulson?"

He started at the question, thoughts running through his mind. Fury was not the sort to offer typical small talk niceties and they both knew full well that his medical records were accessible by him at the press of a button. The plot thickened and he answered. "I'm well, Sir."

"I'm glad to hear that, Coulson." There was a pause and Phil held his breath until Fury spoke again. "How do you feel about getting back in the field?"

"Fieldwork, Sir?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. is expanding its reach. Extraordinary people are popping up all over the world. I want you to head a team, assess these unique individuals and determine if they could be of aid to S.H.I.E.L.D. or a liability to be dealt with."

"Sir, are you sure you want me in the field. It's likely to get back to the others that I'm alive."

Fury was silent for a moment. "We'll deal with that when the time comes. Your talents are being wasted there. You're worth more to S.H.I.E.L.D. doing what you do best...dealing with pain in the ass, would be super heros. So, tell me, Coulson, are you ready to get back to active duty?"

It was Phil's turn for silence. Though it only lasted for a moment, it felt like a lifetime of consideration. There was really only one answer and both he and Fury knew it. This way he would be able to get back to doing what he loved and perhaps one day, he would be allowed to work at Steve Rogers side once again. A man could dream at least.

"I'm ready, Sir."

"Good, then get your ass to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ and receive your briefing. I'm counting on you, Coulson."

"Yes, Sir." He ended the call and reclined back on the down filled comforter. The frustration had abated and he allowed himself a smile of satisfaction before rising and setting about packing his things. He was an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. It was time to get to work.

**Author's Note:**

> I love Phil. I also think Phil/Steve is a really cute pairing. He's such a fanboy of the guy. Anyway, I recently saw a long trailer for The Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. and this plot(if you can call it that) would not leave me. I spat this out (even though I should be working on finishing my other works). Anyway, enjoy. I'm not generally a writer or reader in the Avengers fandom except for the occasional fic here and there, so forgive me if this sounds like a plot that is overdone. It's a little shorter than I like, but considering there is only a barely there plot, I think I did pretty good for an afternoon of writing. This was sort of inspired by fadedlullabyes even though she hates Steve/Coulson. She did link me the trailer hahahaha.


End file.
